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“No.”

“Your brothers?”

“No.”

“How—”

“Take one of my personal vehicles from the east garage,” I say. “The black Range Rover. The plates are counterfeit and can’t be traced. There’s no tracker.”

Ella stares at me like I’ve got two heads. “You seriously have a house no one in your family knows about?” she says. “A car they can’t trace?”

I nod.

“How long have you had this?” she asks.

“Years.”

“Why?”

I meet her gaze. “Because I’m not an idiot.”

She flinches and then drops her jaw.

“I was nineteen when my father showed me what our foundation truly is,” I say. “I can’t say more than that without putting you in danger. But please, Ella, listen to me. Trust me.”

She says nothing.

I say nothing.

But I allow a thought to surface in my head, something I’ve tamped down since I was nineteen.

I started siphoning money from foundation accounts. Not enough to trip alarms. Not enough to raise Father’s interest. Rounded numbers. Dead accounts. Overfunded initiatives that quietly underpaid vendors I controlled through companies no one could connect to me.

I wasn’t even sure why I was doing it at the time, but something inside compelled me.

I had the safe house built, hoping against hope that I’d never have to use it.

Now I’m damned glad it’s there.

Today is the day.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Ella says.

“You don’t know what I’m asking yet,” I reply.

“I know enough.”

“No. You don’t.”

“I’m not leaving you.”

A dangerous warmth spreads through my chest. I bury it.

“You are,” I say.

“No.”

“Ella.”